Countryhumans Oneshots

Blinded

Warning, there are descriptions of blood in this. Written for ApeculiarChild2, and based off her book Where The Mountain Meets The Sea, part 4 of the Paulet Affair, and my own headcanons.

"What did you say to her?" Britain asked as he marched towards Ireland.

"I told her the truth," Ireland stated plainly. Britain scowled, and he continued. "Are you that afraid of the truth, Bhreatain?"

"And now you're committing treason? You really don't appreciate England's mercy at all." Britain asked. Ireland swung his fist in an attempt to punch him, but Britain quickly pinned him against the wall, his size and strength giving him an advantage.

Ireland fought his grip.

"Speaking my language is not treason! Not to me! Not to anyone with an ounce of common sense! Is amadán thú!  Do dhuine nach raibh ag iarraidh a bheith cosúil le Sasana, is cóip iontach thú!"(You are a fool! For someone who didn't want to be like England, you've become an excellent copy!) Ireland spat. Britain sighed.

"The punishment for treason is usually death. But I, like England, am merciful towards you. You will not die. But you will still be punished severely." Britain said before slamming Ireland's head against the wall, stunning him.

Ireland groaned, and Britain began dragging him towards his prison, poorly disguised as a bedroom. Ireland tried to move his feet to slow Britain down, but Britain just slammed Ireland's head against the wall again. And again. And again. He didn't stop.

Ireland screamed, fighting to stay conscious, but Britain quickly shoved his cravat in Ireland's mouth, cutting it off. Britain dropped him to the ground, where Ireland laid, stunned, feeling blood begin to pool around his head.

"MONTSERRAT!" Britain screamed. Panic flooded Ireland's body. What did Britain want with his son? Was this a part of the punishment that he was planning? Ireland tried to get up, but his body refused to obey, his limbs heavy.

Ireland's eyes began to flutter shut as he fought to keep them open. He heard footsteps approaching and then a voice, his son's voice.

"Dai-Father! Is he alright? Grandfather-" Montserrat said before being cut off.

"Stop pretending Ireland is your father. He has never been your father, and yet you stubbornly cling to him as one. He's manipulated you. You are a British colony and the son of my daughter, St Kitts." Britain said.

Ireland wished he could see Montserrat, but his good eye was on the same side as the wall, and most of the hallway was out of his sight.

"I'm sorry," Montserrat said, not sounding very sorry.

"Grandfather." Britain insisted as Ireland heard Montserrat let out a pained noise. He turned his head to the side, the action taking more effort than it should. Ireland saw Britain gripping Montserrat's arm tightly.

"I'm sorry, Grandfather." Montserrat said, wincing. Britain smiled.

"Good." He said before throwing Montserrat towards Ireland.

"Tá brón orm a mhic." (I'm sorry, my son.) Ireland muttered, gaining a swift kick in the head from Britain. Ireland groaned, black spots appearing in his vision as it became even harder to stay awake.

"Clean up the blood. And make sure Sandwich Islands doesn't see you," Britain said, although his voice sounded distant. He then looked down at Ireland. "I'll deal with you properly in a moment."

With that final comment, Britain put his foot down on Ireland's face. He felt pain, and his nose broke under the pressure.

Then Ireland didn't feel anything anymore, the world being overtaken by a pain-free blackness.